


castles in the air

by Lacerta26



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arguments, Developing Relationship, Edging, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Holidays, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25808050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacerta26/pseuds/Lacerta26
Summary: Thomas and Richard have a day out, and a night in, in Whitby.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 21
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**1928, Whitby, Yorkshire**

It’s cold in Whitby and damp as Thomas and Richard climb the steps up to the Abbey. Thomas has never bothered to visit the ruins before, he isn’t sure he would be now if they didn’t have several hours to kill before they can reasonably head to their hotel. He can feel the drizzle settling on his face, cold but not unpleasantly so; it’s still warm for September and he’s hot in his wool coat and for the promise of Richard beside him. 

They shook hands at the station, perfunctory, for the benefit of the few people around them and it feels like torture to be so close and not be able to touch. Richard is quiet, _circumspect,_ but every time their eyes meet he smiles, small and private. Not that they need to be so careful at 2pm on a wet Thursday afternoon. The streets are empty save for a few brave individuals and it’s already on the way to getting dark, the afternoon sky low and heavy above them. 

They walk slowly, it’s not a race to the top, and the slower they go the more time Thomas has to regard Richard, taking the stairs in long strides, with little effort. The man still has his hands in his pockets, for god’s sake, and while Thomas isn’t unfit he is pushing forty and struggling a little. 

Richard turns back a way ahead on the steps and smiles, ‘I'll buy you some fudge later, if you like.’

‘I rather you buy me a stiff drink,’ Thomas mutters, then blushes at the apparent innuendo he hadn’t meant. It seems his mind is always on other things when he’s in Richard’s presence. 

‘That too,’ Richard agrees and continues on.

Thomas forces himself on and falls in beside Richard as they begin to climb above the level of the rooftops, the bulk of the grassy hill still rising above them. He lets his mind go comfortably blank, he doesn’t want to spoil this trip with resentment or frustration. Resentment that he can’t simply take hold of Richard’s hand, frustration at the enforced distance between them. A woman on his train earlier had put her hand on her husband’s knee with such casual intimacy it had made him want to scream. He will carve out this little space together because it’s all they will be afforded and he will be grateful to Richard for having made the journey but not to the world that sees fit to deny them more. 

As they have walked through the town Thomas has been struck in turn by the small details he’s missed or forgotten since he was last close enough to Richard to notice. Like the slate blue of his eyes and the spot on his jaw that he’s missed shaving. Every few steps or so their hands brush as if by accident and each time a frisson of fear and desire sparks across Thomas’s scalp. They pass a few people coming down the steps but they’re few and far between; enough to keep him wary not enough to stop him reaching out on purpose once or twice, the backs of his knuckles brushing against Richard’s.

At the top of the steps they pause and turn back to see how far they’ve come, out over the town and towards the harbour in the fading light. Richard puts his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, his first deliberate touch since the train station, and Thomas leans into it, just for a moment. 

‘There’s a little ways still to go,’ says Richard, already heading off along the footpath past the Church of St Mary.

Thomas jogs to catch up, ‘as if 199 steps weren’t enough.’

‘It’s worth more if you work for it,’ Richard rejoins, a glint in his eye at the careful implications. 

‘Up to a point,’ says Thomas, spiky and immediately regretful.

’You don’t have to do that with me,’ says Richard, sympathetic, and it just makes Thomas more annoyed. He can’t even enjoy a joke so caught up is he in what they’re risking just being here. 

‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be difficult it’s just -’ he’s not sure what it’s just because Richard touches his arm again and smiles, a sad one this time, ‘I know, Thomas, I know.’

They finish their walk in silence but it’s not fraught, thank god, and as they reach the end of the path the ruins loom above them, jagged against the sky, sharp punctuation to close out any lingering tension. Thomas walks forward across the grass without a word, leading the way this time, to step between a fractured arch and into the hollow body of the building. 

There’s a strange sense of calm about the place, even though it’s empty; maybe _because_ it is empty. Thomas read Dracula when he was younger, he knows it’s meant to be eerie but the gaps between the soaring arches give him space to breathe, to see the sky and the grass through the stones and not feel trapped. He can turn to Richard and smile, wide and honest, and not worry about who might see them. 

‘I’ve not been here since they handed it over to the Ministry of Works in 1920,’ says Richard, ever the pragmatist. 

All Thomas can think to say is, ‘it’s beautiful,’ but he’s not looking at the building and he can see Richard blush. 

They take a step closer together in unison and laugh, turning away from each other, a second away from scuffing their feet in embarrassment, like debs at their first season. Thomas has been used to holding his cards close to his chest for too long, or overplaying his hand with far too much at stake; it’s nice to know they’re on the same page, neither of them holding a better hand. But the moment, whatever it was, is lost so he gets out his cigarettes for something to do as Richard takes a stroll around the perimeter. 

Thomas lights up and inhales, finding some clarity as he turns in a circle to watch Richard; he’s taken his hat off and his hair is dented at the back as he looks up at the sky, Thomas was right, he is beautiful. 

Once he’s made a thorough investigation of the sanctuary Richard strides back to Thomas, plucks the cigarette out of his fingers to take a drag and grimace, ‘filthy habit.’ 

Thomas just shrugs and watches as Richard takes another drag, exhaling smoke up into the air, ‘glorious, filthy habit.’ 

With a grin Richard flicks the cigarette end away, ‘come along,’ marching off and leaving Thomas in the middle of the presbytery, dazed. 

They walk around the outside of the ruins this time, shoulders and elbows brushing, and they’ve not made it more than a quarter of the way around before Richard asks, ‘how are things at Downton?’

It rankles him to be asked; that they can’t simply be Thomas and Richard here. Even on their days off they must always be the Earl of Grantham’s Butler and the King’s Royal Dresser. But what else is there to ask? Thomas is under no illusions as to the variety and excitement in his life; the most interesting thing about him is his affair with a servant of the Royal Household. 

‘Fine. fine,’ he says dismissively and then, conciliatory, ‘we’ve had a wedding, and probably another in the offing. Lady Edith had another -, had a girl.’ 

‘Lord Hexham must be thrilled.’

‘I suppose so. They all want boys, really, even if they won’t say it.’

‘I don’t picture them as a couple that minds all that much about that sort of thing.’

‘Well, no,’ Thomas concedes, ‘not in the abstract, but girls can’t inherit.’ 

Richard doesn’t say anything to that and Thomas just watches the tiny dots of rain beading on the Worsted of his coat, like dew on grass, as they continue on.

‘Will you have time to visit your parents while you’re up?’ 

Thomas hates asking because it reminds him of how far apart they are in this regard. Richard’s parents consider the reality of their son's _interests_ much like the inhabitants at Downton do in regards to his; a fact of nature not worth worrying over so long as it doesn’t get discussed over breakfast. Richard is welcome in his family home, an uncle to his brother’s and sister’s children, not, as Thomas is, forgotten, or at worst, despised. 

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Richard says, ‘I’m here to see you.’

He says it kindly but there is regret there. With jobs like theirs time off is precious and rare and Thomas understands the significance of Richard making time to be here with him at the expense of seeing his family. It makes him feel guilty and pleased all at once but what comes out is harsh, ‘I shouldn’t waste your time on me.’ 

‘Thomas,’ Richard doesn’t sound irritated yet but it’s only a matter of time with Thomas’s constant spikiness, his volatility. He’s hard work, he knows, and so far the only reward has been 199 steps and some ruins, scars on the landscape; an apt metaphor if ever there was one. 

‘Thomas,’ Richard repeats and before he gets out the rest of his sentence Thomas is bumping their shoulders in apology.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean - I’m happy you’re here. With me.’

Richard nods like it's already forgotten, ‘of course.’ 

Thomas will never know how Richard does it, letting everything go, not holding on to each minor slight until they consume him. Thomas is carrying around so much pain, blame, and those that hurt him probably have no idea, wouldn’t spare a thought to damage they’ve done. But if we’re talking glass houses he’s living in one as big as Downton Abbey for all the hurt he’s caused in turn. Maybe that’s the secret, to find the balance between the pain you’ve caused and the pain you’ve endured, hope you don’t come up wanting, and in the midground between the two is something that looks like peace. 

They’ve done a full circle of the Abbey now and the wind is bracing as they look out to sea, the lights in the windows and streetlamps from the town below them and the ruins rising darkly behind them. Thomas is leaving something behind here, a weight, and for a moment he feels brave enough to reach out and take Richard’s hand, just for a second, under the cover of darkness and squeeze.

They look back one last time at the Abbey. 

'It was shelled during the war you know,' says Richard, quietly thoughtful.

Thomas looks at him, looks into him and thinks he understands, 'it's still here though.'

'It is that. And so are we,' Richard squeezes his hand in answer and tugs him forward so they naturally break apart, ‘come along, I’ll buy you some chips.’ 

‘And that drink?’ Thomas says it with a smile in his voice, apologising still. 

‘If you can bear to wait…’ Richard raises his eyebrows, his meaning obvious. 

‘We can have a drink tomorrow,’ Thomas is decisive. They've been out in the cold for near on three hours and the promise of the hotel beckons, warm and warming. 

The walk down the steps seems to take far less time, and is definitely less of a strain on Thomas’s knees, than the walk up. It’s colder now the sun has well and truly set, the streets shining from the rain that’s been falling on and off all day and they have to concentrate to not slip on the stairs.

Once they’ve made it back down the steps it should only be a 15 minute walk to their hotel and they aren’t dragging their heels for lack of wanting to be there but it is new territory; privacy, a proper room, with an actual bed in it this time. Anticipation is making Thomas giddy with nerves and he has an idea Richard feels similarly. It’s a risk too, Thomas nearly booked two rooms for fear of being discovered but decided going between them would be even more conspicuous than two bachelors in a twin. He wants this, wants Richard, he knows they can be careful, and in the end it will be worth it. 

They stop at a chippy on the way. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, too jittery at the thought of seeing Richard again to make any headway on the sandwiches Mrs Patmore had made him. Now they do have something legitimate to delay them he’s frustrated at the slow progress they’re making but the chips are almost too hot to even hold in their cones of newspaper, let alone eat. 

Richard pauses as they cross Whitby Bridge, leaning against the railing and looking out to the mouth of the River Esk. Thomas stops with him, leaning the other way, an excuse to regard him in profile as they eat. 

‘It’s not quite the Seine,’ he says after a moment, invested finally in eating his chips now they’ve cooled enough to swallow. 

‘No, it’s not that.’ 

Thomas looks up to Richard staring right at him and thinks for a wild moment he’s about to be kissed here in the middle of the street with people on every side. For all his advice about being careful Thomas is learning that Richard can be quite reckless, kissing him by open doorways, saving him in the name of the king. 

‘Let’s get going,’ Richard says instead, close, his breath misting in the air.

‘OK,’ Thomas barely chokes out, warm suddenly, down to the tips of his toes. 

Screwing up their chip wrappers into a nearby bin they walk faster now, through the narrow streets that lead towards the sea. Richard tips his hat to everyone they pass, forever amiable where Thomas wishes to be anonymous. 

The hotel is on a street just off the seafront, shabby but not unpleasant, with the sound of the seagulls wheeling about in the sky above them. 

Thomas lets Richard deal with checking in. He feels like he might vibrate out of his skin he’s so desperate to be away from here, in a room with a locked door and no one to observe them. It feels mostly like anxiety, that they should be too obvious, that anyone looking at them will know what they are, why they’re here, but there’s desire there too and with Richard leaning provocatively against the desk he’s sure it’s clear as day on his face.

He tries to focus and not stand around gormlessly just as Richard says to the desk clerk, ‘finally got a few days off, thought we’d sample the delights of Whitby.’

‘Did ya now,’ the clerk is surly but Thomas can see it’s just his manner, not an accusation. 

‘Wife’s visiting with her sister. Cat’s away and all that,’ this gets a chuckle, along with their room keys.

‘Wrong time of year for the beach but you gents’ll still find some fun I’m sure.’

‘I’m sure we will,’ Richard agrees with a wink and it shouldn’t be a surprise how easily he slips into this role, becomes a completely different person, seedy somehow, as he lies his way through the conversation.

‘Breakfast’s 7 ‘til 9. Ring down if you want owt this evening. But I expect you’ll be going out.’

It’s only quarter til six what will it look like if they go up to their room now and don’t come down all evening?

‘We’ll see, tomorrow night’s the big one, couple of lads coming over from Kirkbymoorside.’

The clerk just raises his eyebrows, obviously keen to get back to his newspaper, disinterested in the plans of his guests. It’s a relief, really, to know they are unremarkable and quickly forgettable and as they climb the stairs to the top floor the clerk has already turned away and put them out of his mind. 

Thomas barely has time to remove his hat in the doorway of their room before Richard has him pressed up against the closed door. They’re not even kissing, just breathing each other’s air, Richard’s hands on his jaw and his hands on Richard’s waist, closer than they’ve been all day. Then Richard takes off his hat too and they are kissing, soft at first, then deeper as Thomas tips his head back against the door and parts his lips. 

‘Darling,’ Richard murmurs, soft in the back of his throat, and steps away leaving Thomas disheveled, still pinned to the door under the weight of his own desire. 

The pause gives him time to pull himself together and to survey the room, put down his hat and take off his coat. It’s clean but compact with a sink in the corner and two windows looking out onto the terraced houses opposite. Their suitcases were sent on from the station, carefully placed at the foot of each bed, which are both doubles, thank god, so won’t need to be pushed together. They’re up high enough that no one should be able to see in the windows but Thomas still pulls the curtains closed, shutting out the world as much as keeping them protected from it.

When he turns back to the room Richard has already lost his jacket and tie, his braces hanging in loops at his waist, his bearing utterly different again from how he was this afternoon, how he was downstairs. It surprises Thomas every time given how cheerful to the point of grating this man can be that it’s all an act as well; his affable, amenable exterior is what gets him through the day where Thomas is all hard edges, prickly and unapproachable. Here, alone with Thomas, he’s relaxed as he hasn’t been all day and that helps Thomas to relax too. 

Richard gestures to his state of undress, ‘we don’t…’ but Thomas is already interrupting him, crossing the small space to start undoing his buttons, ‘why don’t you let me do that?’

Thomas might not be the King’s Dresser but he was a valet for a long time, taking someone else out of their clothes is almost easier than getting out of his own, and he longs to see more of Richard’s skin. He neatly folds the shirt once it’s off him and Richard just stands and waits, docile, for Thomas to come back and pull his undershirt over his head. He can’t resist spending a moment with his hands spanning Richard’s ribs, nosing along his collarbone, pressing gentle kisses to his neck, just to breathe him in. Not content to simply be kissed, though, Richard pulls Thomas closer, a hand in the small of his back where he’s sweaty and damp under three layers of clothing. He steps back to take off his jacket and loosen his tie, a hand splayed in the middle of Richard’s chest to keep him in place, but all Richard does is loosen his stance and put his hand over Thomas’s, tender. Thomas gets a bit stuck when it comes to pull his jacket off that arm and Richard reels him, kisses him lightly, chuckles as he throws the jacket unceremoniously to the floor, ‘let me.’

‘No, I want to,’ says Thomas and falls to his knees. 

Thomas unlaces Richard’s boots, hands gentle on his calves, and up to his thighs; he’s been in this position many, many times but it’s never mattered so much as this before. He undoes Richard’s trousers and doesn’t miss the sudden inhale above him or Richard’s hands on his shoulders as he steps out of his trousers and underthings; Thomas almost fully clothed while Richard stands there in nothing but his socks and garters.

Richard’s prick is hard against his belly and Thomas looks up in question, finding Richard gazing down at him in wonder. It’s been so long, too long. Richard nods, once, and Thomas kneels up to take him into his mouth. 

He loves this, Richard naked and he clothed, the warmth of Richard’s skin and the salt tang of him across Thomas’s tongue, he’s on his knees but Richard’s the one at his mercy. He pulls off to nuzzle at the base of his cock, feel hair brush against his cheek and breathe in the smell of soap and sweat and _Richard._ Drawing his tongue flat along the underside makes Richard gasp and sucking the tip between his lips makes him swear. Thomas chuckles, catelogues the reaction; this is always the act that helps you get to know a man, fucking is all well and good, but this, this is vulnerable, revealing. 

‘Can I?’ Richard’s hand hovers above his head and Thomas hums in agreement. He expects rough hands in his hair, an attempt to control the pace but Richard strokes gently as if tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and it feels like he’s being looked after too. 

He grips Richard’s hips and takes him deeper, curling his tongue and moving his head in a slow rhythm. He’s hard too, straining in his trousers, but it’s secondary to the fullness of his mouth and the sound of Richard, close enough to be begging, and Thomas gets lost in it. 

‘Thomas, love,’ Richard says after a moment, traces the line of his lips, stretched around his cock, ‘stop for me.’

It’s gently asked but Thomas still feels the spike of panic, shame at having done something wrong, but Richard is smiling, flushed above him, ‘I want to see you, too.’

Thomas stands somewhat shakily and lets Richard lead him to the bed to be undressed. 

‘Don’t you want?’ Thomas reaches weakly but Richard just takes his hand and kisses it, a gentleman asking a lady for a dance. 

‘Much more of that and this will be over far too quickly and I want to see you naked in this bed before the night is out, if I may?’

‘Of course,’ Thomas’s voice is a croak, roughened. 

It’s more of a two player sport getting Thomas out of his clothes because Richard keeps getting distracted by kissing until they’re both fully undressed, or nearly.

Richard pauses, a sympathetic hand on his left arm, ‘and this?’

Thomas looks down at his gloved hand, the silver lines shining on his wrists. Richard is looking at him without a hint of pity, if Thomas refuses he won’t press but with what’s at stake here it seems unkind to hold anything back. 

‘Yes, that too.’ 

Richard goes down on one knee between Thomas thighs to unbutton the glove and his touch is softer than any kidskin leather, reverent but not overwrought at what Thomas has conceded here. It’s thanks enough for the moment and then Richard is grinning and leaning forward to push Thomas back on to the bed and kiss him with fervor. 

There’s not enough time in the day for kissing, in Thomas’s opinion, he could do it for hours, exploring and mapping a partner, mouth to mouth, so close you feel you could climb inside them. It’s often what he finds himself daydreaming about the most, in quiet moments. Decanting the wine for dinner in his pantry or when he locks up at night, his thoughts often turn to this; the feel of Richard’s jaw moving under his fingertips, the give and take of tongue and lips, how often it feels like drowning as you come up for air, only to be willingly submerged once again. 

In their few previous encounters they seem to have forgone it to get on with other pursuits, harder and faster and desperate for the closeness getting off together brings but there’s nothing like kissing. It’s what lovers do and Thomas has longed so long for someone who will kiss him for the sake of it; wants to kiss him in greeting, even if they can’t; would kiss him awake and goodnight; will kiss him with an indefinite end. 

But end it must as they lie together on the bed, bodies pressed close, shoulder and hip. Richard must be getting desperate and Thomas is on the way there. 

‘What would you like?’ Richard asks, polite to a fault even with his hard cock pressed against Thomas’s thigh. 

‘I want you to fuck me?’ he softens the expletive with a question but it’s an answer all the same, ‘is that ok? I can…?’ 

‘No, it’s perfect, it’s just what I want,’ Richard is already over on the other bed rummaging in his suitcase for the vaseline and in this context, for this purpose even the sight of the jar has Thomas prick throbbing impossibly harder. Richard will get him ready, Richard will be inside him soon and he can’t bear the waiting.

Back on the bed Thomas submits to being put where he’s wanted, head against the pillows and Richard tracing patterns across his hips, the dip of his pelvis. He expects, after all the preamble, for Richard to just get on with it but seated between his thighs, Richard just looks at him, ‘how long’s it been?’

God _, years._ Thomas doesn’t want to think about that, the others, men who used him and men he used, for companionship, for advancement, a warm body to get one through until dawn. None of them compare to what this is. 

‘A while?’ Richard nods, understanding, leaning down to kiss his hip bone and suddenly there’s a slick finger lightly pressing at his entrance and he breathes in as Richard slips inside. He hadn’t even noticed Richard opening the jar, slicking himself up, too busy looking into his eyes and seeing the care there, the desire. 

It feels wonderful. Only one finger and barely up the second knuckle but Thomas is already aflame with wanting. He doesn’t often bother with this when he’s by himself, thrusting fast into his fist, desperate to get off and get to sleep or get on with his day, it seems too much work when he’s alone. Richard moves slowly, rotating his wrist, and Thomas feels his body relax, letting Richard in. 

‘Another,’ it’s almost a demand, _‘please_.’ 

Richard just chuckles and withdraws torturously slowly, ‘patience.’ 

Two is a lot, full in a way Thomas hasn’t felt for a long time, as Richard opens his fingers, crosses them, moves inexorably forward to find - 

‘Fuck -’ Thomas moans, his hips kicking up of their own accord to get Richard’s fingers back to that spot. 

‘There?’

‘Yes, god, right there,’ a bright sweat has broken out across Thomas’s brow, on his chest, warm and cooling all at once. He grips the sheets, then Richard’s free arm, an anchor to keep them connected beyond the pulsing of Richard’s fingers inside him. 

Richard pulls out to add more vaseline to his fingers as Thomas blows out a breath, ruffling his fringe, trying to recentre himself in the moment. With his clean hand Richard brushes the stray locks of hair off Thomas’s forehead, and grins. It’s refreshing to smile with a man in bed, not to feel he has to always be serious to be taken seriously. 

‘Ready?’ 

‘You don’t have to keep asking,’ combative again even though he doesn’t mean to be. 

Richard doesn’t rise to it, ‘I like to be sure.’

‘Yes, I’m ready,’ he’s more than ready, his cock hard and dripping against his stomach, a new emptiness waiting to be filled, ‘for more than that.’

‘Not quite.’

Richard goes back in directly this time, finding Thomas’s prostate and stroking with the pads of his two fingers, delicate pulls that spiral warm pleasure out from Thomas’s hips, down his thighs and up his spine in a way that has him keening. 

‘That’s it,’ Richard murmurs, one hand on Thomas’s flank, soothing, ‘could you take another?’ 

He feels tended to, soft and open in more ways than one, like he could do anything Richard asked of him. 

‘ _Yes.’_

Richard pulls out again, opening his fingers, and the stretch is exquisite, ‘ok, love, three this time.’

Thomas reaches down between his legs, careful not to brush his cock, one touch and he’d finish, he knows it, to feel where he’s stretched around Richard’s fingers, three up to the second knuckle. 

‘Can you hold still?’

He has his eyes shut, moving purely on feeling, instinct, and he feels Richard’s hum of confirmation through his arm and into his fingers more than he hears it. He works his hips forward, against the resistance of Richard’s hand, until it feels like Richard is in him so deep he won’t ever leave. 

‘Christ. _Fuck.’_

Making Richard swear always feels like a triumph. 

Thomas opens his eyes to Richard looking dazed and awestruck; he’s flushed, hair falling around his face for once, not sleek and slicked and unflappable. 

‘Darling, are you ready for me?’ 

He’s been ready since the handshake at the train station, wanting and wanted all day, resisting and resisted. Now he can give it all up, gladly.

Thomas makes to turn over but Richard stills him with a hand to his hip, ‘no, I want to see your face,’ and leans down to kiss him, deep and unhurried, Thomas’s hands stroking through his hair, even though Thomas can feel the blood-hot length of his prick, neglected for too long, surely. 

They part, trading soft kisses, but his left hand, scarred and mangled, against Richard’s cheek is jarring suddenly and he has to turn away. 

‘Hey, love, no, don’t do that,’ Richard pulls him up to sitting, pulling him into a hug that’s all encompassing, shuts out the pain and the regret, the shame he feels at the constant reminder of his broken body, his broken mind. 

‘I’m sorry - I don’t -. Sorry,’ he says, lamely, it doesn’t seem adequate to merely apologise for spoiling the moment but Richard is running soothing hands up his back and it’s enough to remind him of the pleasure of before, a path back to it. 

‘Do you want to stop?’ 

Thomas kisses him, thanks and apology, both. 

‘No,’ his cock has softened slightly, but Richard’s is still standing to attention, ready for him, ‘like this.’

Richard on his knees, Thomas above, straddling him.

He slicks up Richard’s cock and sinks down, breathing into the fullness, different again from Richard’s fingers. He has to do the work now, and that’s fine, Richard’s earned some pleasure, a pause to enjoy himself selfishly, so Thomas starts moving, lifting up only slightly and rocking back down. 

‘You feel so good, darling,’ Richard grips his hips hard, and a small part of Thomas hopes it will bruise, that he’ll be able to carry a part of Richard away with him when they have to go back to their real lives. Richard’s mouth is on his neck too, sucking kisses as he moves, a counterpoint to Richard inside him and his prick caught between them. 

‘Go ahead,’ he manages to gasp out, and at Richard’s pause, ‘mark me. Where no one else will see.’

He feels Richard smile against his skin, ‘there are hidden depths to you, Mr Barrow.’

‘You can find all of them, Mr Ellis, I’m sure.’

It’s so strange that they seem to revert to these formalities in the midst of sex, a reminder of their first meeting, when all they were to each other were Mr Ellis and Mr Barrow, hopeful but uncertain until Thomas revealed himself, unequivocally, and needed to be saved. 

Richard tilts him down, onto his back, a better angle for grazing his teeth along Thomas’s collarbone, kissing the sting. Thomas feels the blood blooming under his skin, a prickle that begins and ends with Richard's mouth on him, hurting him, tenderly. He thinks of the days to come, when they’re apart, how he will be able to press down on this spot and remember Richard inside of him, being with him, close enough that they’re sharing breath and it’s _wonderful._

This new position also gets them closer together, Thomas’s knees up around Richard’s hips moving faster now, harder, getting them nearer to the inevitable end. 

‘Are you close?’ Richard’s gasping, manners forgotten, and it’s a good look on him, Thomas decides to try and get him here more often, as often as their days off will allow.

Thomas’s hand finds his prick, tentatively strokes, and it’s too much all at once, a sudden refocusing of pleasure, that has him moaning, moving back against Richard’s thrusts. 

‘Yes, I’m -’

‘Go on, love, for me,’ and Richard angles his hips, finds that spot again, unerring, and Thomas comes, back arching, _god,_ bliss ebbing and flowing through him like a tide, throat hoarse but silent, gripping Richard’s arm and his hip, shuddering through it, anchored. 

When he finds himself back in the room Richard is still, held above him in suspended anticipation, waiting. 

‘I love you,’ says Thomas, he means to say, _carry on_ , but his heart and his mind and his body have other intentions.

‘Love, yes, love,’ Richard chokes out and Thomas knows he means _I love you too_ but also _dear god you have to let me come._

‘Carry on,’ Thomas tilts his hips, it’s a lot, the sensation of still being filled after an orgasm but he wants nothing more than for Richard to finish inside him.

It seems like Richard falls to him in slow motion, urgent and uncontrolled as he moves, kissing Thomas everywhere he can reach, eyelids and forehead, the side of his mouth.

‘Perfect, you’re perfect.’

It’s inelegant, wet between them from Thomas’s spend, and he’s sensitive but grateful to be coherent enough to watch Richard in this moment, needy and wanting, as he works himself up and over the precipice. Warmth floods him as Richard comes, gasping into the space between Thomas’s neck and shoulder, and Thomas feels the echoes of his own pleasure reverberating between them. 

Richard stills and there’s a beat as they both catch their breath before he pulls out gently, rolls to the side and back to rest his head against Thomas’s shoulder, ‘I love you too.’

It’s the answer to an earlier conversation, to every conversion they’ve had today and some they haven’t, and it’s everything Thomas wants to hear. 

Thomas wakes to the smell of brilliantine and the sound of water running. The curtains are open again bathing the room in cool, blue light. Richard is at the sink, naked and brushing his teeth, unaware he’s being observed and Thomas feels pleasantly achy, well rested even though it’s still early and wanting again like he hasn’t felt since he was a younger man. 

‘Richard, come back to bed.’

Richard starts in surprise but smiles broadly when he turns, ‘good morning to you too.’ 

‘I _said_ , come back to bed,’ says Thomas, a touch more pointedly. 

Richard rinses his mouth and turns back to the bed proper, eyebrows raised at the sheet across Thomas’s lap, and the multitude of indiscretions it patently _isn’t_ hiding, ‘was there any particular reason you needed me to come back to bed?’

‘You know there is,’ in the safety and lassitude of the early morning it feels easy to be playful. 

Richard laughs, bright and clear, and bounds over to him, straddling Thomas and kissing him, breath fresh from his toothpaste, still damp at the edges from washing his face or combing his hair. 

It’s an easy, casual sort of kiss, one that promises more to come. They have one more day and night here before they have to head home. They can’t spend all of it in bed but the morning, as always, is theirs to enjoy, and Thomas means to make the most of it. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if Whitby Abbey was open to the public in 1928 for you to just wander in but for the purposes of this it was.
> 
> The Abbey was handed over to the Ministry of Works in 1920, though, and they uncovered evidence of an Anglian settlement. It was also shelled in 1914 by the German High Seas Fleet causing considerable damage.
> 
> I have been to Whitby a few times but that was nearly 20 years ago so apologies for any errors in that regard.
> 
> Title from Bram Stoker's Dracula which was set partly in Whitby and without context seemed fitting: 'I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.'
> 
> I have some ideas as to further chapters of this, that may involve fossil hunting, so let me know if you'd like more!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags for this chapter: Arguments, Intercrural Sex, Hand Jobs, Edging

Thomas and Richard dress in silence. There’s already the sound of the hotel coming to life around them, slamming doors and conversations in the corridor, intruding on their peace. With no time to properly enjoy watching each other, they dress quickly, and it is a disappointment. Thomas would like to see how Richard Ellis is created at his leisure without all this dancing around each other in the small room. There is a certain intimacy, though, Thomas tying his laces while Richard checks his tie in the mirror; this is how they would get ready together if they saw each other every morning. 

The last thing to do before they leave is ruck up the other bed, turning down the sheets and denting the pillows. At the door they pause for one last honest look to pass between them and Richard kisses him, chaste, a soft peck to the side of Thomas’s mouth, and then the door is open and they are away, walking consciously apart as they head down to breakfast. 

The Dining Room is mostly empty, a few couples, some businessmen, but Thomas still feels watched, observed, holding himself stiffly over his porridge and it's a shock when he feels the hard leather of Richard’s shoe against his own. He starts, pulling his feet under his chair. 

‘Don’t,’ he hisses, harsh, and feels immediately regretful, ‘sorry, sorry.’ 

Richard shakes his head, drinks his coffee, ‘the sun’s out today. We could walk along the beach?’

It’s a reprieve, of sorts, and Thomas can smile again, ‘OK, let’s do that.’ 

The sky is a cold, clear blue, bright sunshine and sharp air, the sort that hurts your lungs if you breathe too deep. It’s still early, although not as early as either of them usually gets up, and the beach is deserted. Richard marches on ahead towards the sea, breaking deep green against the sand, and breathes in the salty air, eyes closed and face turned towards the sun, his hat in his hands.

‘You look as if you want to dive straight in,’ Thomas says, teasing, but he’s struck by the shine of Richard’s hair, almost golden in this light. 

Richard turns back to him and grins, ‘I wouldn’t mind, a swim in bracing waters, just the tonic.’

‘Yeah and freeze your bollocks off in the process. We couldn’t have that.’

‘Couldn’t we?’

‘No, I have a vested interest.’

‘In my…?’

Thomas shushes him and looks around but the beach is still empty, only seagulls to overhear them. 

‘You started it,’ Richard rocks on his heels, a swimmer braced for a dive, but he steps back, ‘come, let’s walk.’ 

Above the sand the beach huts shine gaily in the sunshine, sentinels along the coastline almost as far as the eye can see, empty today, and there’s a lightness in Thomas’s steps as he walks. He feels easier in Richard’s company, something of the frenetic anxiety of yesterday has burned away after a night together and he can relax. But it’s still broad daylight, however deserted the beach, and they keep a respectable distance from each other, Thomas kicking at pebbles and Richard looking out to sea.

‘How’s the Palace?’

‘The same as ever, petty intrigue and minor scandal.’

‘Not involving you I hope.’

‘I’ve got all of the scandal I could want for here,’ Richard bumps his shoulder, laughing, and Thomas can feel the blush spreading across his cheeks and hopes it just looks like windchill. 

‘Do you ever think of leaving? Coming back to Yorkshire?’ he asks the question without input from his brain, because even with the whole day stretching ahead of them, they have to leave in the morning and he doesn’t want to let Richard go. If they were in the same county things could be different, they wouldn’t have to jump through so many hoops for two days together every six months or more. 

‘Are you asking me to?’ Richard looks surprised, but pleased.

Thomas just stares at him, caught by Richard’s penetrating gaze, one that demands honesty, ‘no, I -, sorry, I know it’s not as easy as all that.’ 

‘No, but I like to be thought of in that way. I like that you think of me in that way.’

‘In what way?’

‘As someone you want to be near.’ 

‘Of course I want to be near to you.’ 

The tide is in so they’ve run out of beach and apparently things to say on that score, it’s a silence but not an uncomfortable one. 

On the stairs up to the coastal path Thomas loses his footing, and Richard automatically reaches out to steady him, pulling him up the last few steps, his hand strong in Thomas’s own.

‘I want nothing more than to be near you, too. But as you say, it’s not as easy as all that.’

Thomas takes back his hand, his palm damp, but fighting a smile as they turn together to look back out to sea. 

‘It’s almost enough to know you think about it too.’

‘Oh, well we all think about it, don’t we? What might have been, who we might have been, out of service, in service.’

‘But it doesn’t do to wonder,’ Thomas kicks against the railing and looks away. He feels petulant, his good mood evaporating fast, as all the impossible scenarios for them to be together and happy come to him and have to be dismissed. 

‘But one can hope, can’t they, Mr Barrow?’ Richard touches their hands together on the railing, hidden from any eyes that might be on them.

Thomas turns back to him and can’t help but return his smile; if there's one thing he can rely on Richard for, it’s helping him to hope. When he was younger, when he was young, as he isn’t now, facing forty and middle age, he had so many ambitions. To get on, to get away, but in the end what he really longed for was freedom. As a footman his whole life was ordered and overseen by someone else, when he ate, when he slept, who he saw and when, and as a soldier, regimented and ruled, it wasn’t much different. He longed to escape the system that controlled him and if that was not possible to rule it; to dictate the rhythms and tempo of a house and in controlling it he had hoped to be free of it. But all authority has brought him is more to lose, further to fall, and responsibility to the other people he’d take down with him. 

And yet, this man beside him, god, he would be worth the risk. 

‘Yes, you can certainly hope, Mr Ellis.’

‘Good because I do. This isn’t it for us, Thomas. We _can_ have a future if we want it. I know plenty of blokes who’ve done it.’

‘Plenty is it?’

Richard laughs, rueful, ‘well, a few, more like, but not none is the point. It’s something to think on.’ 

Oh, he thinks about it _constantly_ , ‘maybe I will.’ 

On they walk along the coastal path until they reach Whitby Golf Course, ‘we can head back into town,’ says Richard, looking back the way they’ve come. 

‘Nonsense, let’s go round,’ Thomas strides on, they’re making progress, moving forward, it’s conducive to conversation and he doesn’t want them going over old ground, in any sense. 

‘Are you sure? It’s a long walk to Sandsend.’

‘I thought you were made of sterner stuff than this.’ 

Richard adjusts his cuffs, sticks out his chest, ‘I’ll race you, old man.’ 

Thomas scoffs, ‘I’m not much older than you.’

‘And yet it will make all the difference,’ Richard slaps him on the shoulder and starts off at a jog, forcing Thomas to chase him, laughing, but he slows when Thomas catches up, keeps pace beside him.

Walking around the golf course takes them away from the sea and Thomas misses the sound of it, the comforting murmur of the waves, but walking surrounded by greenery, even sculpted and manicured greenery is restoring in its own way; like walking through the grounds at Downton, without the watchful eye of the Crawley’s on him. 

When they get to the beach at Sandsend there are more people about. A few people walking dogs, couples arm in arm and some children out with a governess, bundled up in coats and scarves, shouting into the wind, enjoying the lassitude the beach affords them. The children at Downton seem to get quieter and quieter as they get older, more serious about their place in the world, and Thomas misses the noise and the laughter. 

It gets easier as the day wears on to not worry about what people must think when they see them together. 

The sand here is softer than it was further down the coast and Thomas keeps sinking into it. There’s a little village up ahead and beyond that the cliffs, a gray band through the landscape with blue sea below and green fields above. The tide is going out now, shrinking away from the shore and leaving the sand glassy in its wake, small birds pick over the ground, ruffling their feathers as the sea gives them a little more beach to scavenge with each passing moment. 

They’ve nearly reached the cliffs and the end of the beach, a recent rock fall tumbled in front of them, already shining with water and seaweed. They’re out of the way here, most of their fellow beach goers not willing to risk a broken neck from slipping on the stones. 

‘There should be fossils here,’ says Richard, ‘we could have a look if we’re careful. 

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Thomas says suddenly, anything but careful. 

‘Oh? What’s that?’ there’s a smile in Richard’s voice, he’s crouched down, turning over stones, searching. Thomas keeps looking at the ground, too, eyes skipping over the bright pools of water collected in the divots of rock, so he doesn’t have to look at Richard’s face. 

‘Why don’t you write to me more often?’ 

Richard looks up in confusion, his hat skewiff on head, the sun on his face. Thomas doesn’t want to start an argument but he can feel it rising, the need to to press at any sore spot, let his emotions get the better of him before he’s had time to consider the consequences. 

‘I do write you letters. I wrote to you confirming this trip only last week,’ Richard stands, he’s turning a stone over and over in his hand, coming closer like he’s approaching a cat liable to scratch.

‘That hardly counts,’ Thomas sneers it, ‘a missive so bland you would think we barely _know_ each other.’ 

‘Surely, you understand, with my position, I can’t -’

It’s a reasonable consideration, Richard does have a lot to lose, more so than Thomas, but it still makes him furious.

‘I know _._ As if I don’t have anything to lose myself. We’re in this together, so you say, but you have all the evidence and it’s only damning me as far as I can see.’

‘You want me to write to you so you have evidence to hold against me?’

‘No. _No,’_ this is not going at all the way Thomas wants it to, ‘I want you to write to me because you want to.’ 

‘I’ve never been much of a letter writer. And you know it’s a risk, sometimes, to put down what we really feel but it doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.’

‘I _know_.’

‘And you don’t need insurance, Thomas, if I wanted out of this, which I don't, I wouldn't ruin your life in order to leave.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘No. Of course not,’ Richard steps closer, they’re alone as far as this part of the beach goes, but they can’t touch as they might want to, ‘how could you think that of me?’ 

‘I don’t.’ 

‘Then what’s this about? Explain it to me.’

Thomas closes his eyes. How can he explain it, with Richard looking at him so sincerely, when he only wanted to ask, to _check_ and instead he’s accusing Richard of a hundred things, and none of them true _._ Thomas has been writing letters like an ingénue with her first crush. Careful letters, most of the time, but there’s enough in them to give him away. They talk on the telephone fairly regularly but for every letter he gets from Richard he must send three in return and he feels sometimes like he’s writing the evidence for the prosecution. It makes him feel alone, like the distance between them is insurmountable, and if all they have are days like this they’ll never last. He was warned a long time ago not to put anything in writing and it’s good advice; he doesn’t want Richard to do anything he can’t afford to risk but he’s been shown too many times he can’t take something like this on trust, he needs something tangible and even then, he can be betrayed. 

‘I had, he, Philip. Anyway, he snuck into my room at Downton and took all his letters back, burned them, right in front of me, like it was nothing.’

They don’t talk about it much, their relationships from before they met, other men who they’ve loved or lusted after in the past. All those relationships are over, for one reason or another, but the scars remain and Thomas has been bearing his scars to Richard in every possible way. 

‘I thought I meant something to him. I thought if I had his letters I could prove that it’d meant something but from you I don't even have that.

‘I don’t know this man,’ begins Richard, and what a joke that is, if Thomas mentioned his title Richard would know him in a moment, ‘but I’m not him and whatever his motives, they’re not mine.’

Richard is firm but forgiving and Thomas can stand down. 

‘Would you like me to write you more letters?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I will.’

Richard takes his hand, only for a moment, presses the stone he’s been holding into Thomas’s palm. He looks down at it as Richard walks away; the grooves of almost concentric circles, a perfect spiral, an ammonite, split open from the cliffs and washed clean by the sea. Thomas closes his hand around it and squeezes hard, almost until it hurts, and when he opens his fingers the whorls have impressed themselves on his palm. He slips the ammonite into his pocket and hurries to catch up with Richard.

‘Of course you would be good at finding fossils.’

Richard shrugs, ‘beginner’s luck.’

‘Thank you.’

It’s not quite an apology but it’s the best Thomas can do for the moment and he thinks Richard understands because he smiles like he means it and says, ‘shall we find a pub for lunch?’

They walk up from the beach and over a bridge to the Hart Inn. There’s no stopping this time, no romantic declarations, not like yesterday, but Thomas holds on to the fossil in his pocket as if it’s Richard’s hand. He’s been learning to say sorry, admitting when he’s wrong and not fighting when there’s no need; it’s getting easier at Downton to convince everyone he means what he says and Richard carries no baggage, he accepts Thomas’s apologies with ease. There’s so much he wants to say and so little time to say it in, and he seems to always come back to the grit, the bone of contention, he can never let anything lie. If he can’t hold it in, apologies must always come after, no matter how difficult. 

The pub is busy, for a workday lunchtime, even on a Friday, and they can talk without much fear of being overheard although neither of them speak until there’s a meal and a beer in front of them both. It’s Richard that breaks the silence.

‘You don’t have to do that, you know, start a fight because you’re upset about something.’

Thomas is calmer now, finding perspective, ‘I don’t mean to. But I feel like if I don’t draw first blood I've already lost.’ 

‘We’re on the same side. Any problem, we can work it out together.’

‘I know and I’m sorry,’ Thomas picks up his pint and their fingers brush. They’re dangerously close to declarations within hearing distance of the other punters so he sits back to take a swig.

‘You’re forgiven.’ 

‘ _This_ time,’ but he says it lightly and smiles.

‘We can discuss the ways you can make it up to me later.’

‘Do you promise?’

Richard’s returning smile promises any number of things. 

Thomas lights a cigarette on the steps of the pub, watching Richard putting on his hat like he’s a film star. It’s colder now it’s the afternoon; the hems of his trousers feel damp and Richard has sand all over his shoes. It’s time to call it a day. 

‘Do you want to walk back or get the bus?’

They catch the bus, neither of them particularly desirous of another hour long walk. 

Sat beside each other on the bus is the closest they’ve been all day, pressed together from shoulder to thigh. With the coastline rushing past them and jostled by fellow travellers they can’t forget where they are but Richard’s grip is hard on the seat in front of him, knuckles white with the strain and Thomas knows he can feel it too; how much they want each other, how soon they’ll be able to have each other. 

Despite the tension on the journey back into Whitby there’s no rush when they’re finally alone, back at the hotel, they know they have time before they have to head out again. A closed and locked door is enough, they can be themselves again. 

It’s a gentle escalation, little touches here and there; Richard’s hand on the small of Thomas’s back as he goes past him to head to the washroom down the hall, a kiss to the nape of his neck, a smile when their eyes meet folding clothes across the room. They know where they’re heading, whenever they get there will be fine. 

When Richard comes back in from the bathroom Thomas is sat on the bed in his vest and trousers, stretching the ache from his bad hand; it troubles him more and more these days, going stiff when he gets too cold. 

‘Are you ok?’ Richard climbs on to the bed behind him, warm and a little damp, pressed against Thomas’s back, running the fingers of one hand through the short hair at the side of his head and taking Thomas’s hand in his. It doesn’t feel so horrible today, Richard’s hand strong and tanned against Thomas’s pale and twisted one, Thomas can look and feel comforted instead of fearful. 

‘Would a hot bath help? The bathroom’s free.’

Thomas sighs into the touch, feeling coddled, leaning his head back on Richard’s shoulder, ‘yes, I need to wash the beach off.’ 

But he doesn’t move, only leans back into Richard’s arms and the firm circles he’s rubbing into the meat of Thomas’s palm. It hurts but it’s working out the soreness, softening and loosening his fingers and the tension slips out of the rest of him, too, his shoulders dropping, his eyes slipping closed. 

Richard shifts behind him, his legs bracketing Thomas’s, the hand that was in his hair settling on his hip, his fingertips firm and - 

‘I can feel that, you know.’

Richard chuckles, ‘I should hope so, I’ve wanted you all day. Even when you were telling me off.’

‘And what do you want from me?’ 

It's an invitation as much as anything and so is the way he spreads his legs a little wider but Richard just continues with the gentle massaging of Thomas’s hand. 

‘That rather depends. Weren’t you about to have a bath?’ 

‘Maybe I want you to give me more of a reason to need one.’

‘Is that so?’

‘For god’s sake, Richard, stop teasing and _touch me,’_ patience may be a virtue but it’s not one Thomas has any time for in this moment. 

Richard’s hand moves from Thomas’s hip to under his vest, where his belly is hot and tense with the anticipation and up, finding the mark from last night, just below his collarbone. He doesn’t press, just strokes tender fingers over the bruise, making goosebumps spring up all over Thomas’s skin. A drop of water from Richard’s wet hair hits his cheek and slips down his face but he makes no move to wipe it away only sinks more comfortably into the hold Richard has on him. 

‘That’s it, relax for me,’ Richard whispers it, a delicate rumble right into Thomas’s ear, and if he wasn’t hard before he’s well on his way now and desperate for Richard to touch him with intent. 

Their left hands are still entwined, anchored on the bed clothes, and with his free hand Richard finds the fastenings of Thomas’s trousers and gets them open. The light touch of fingertips along the length of him has his prick rising to full hardness; it’s gentle at first, nothing serious, Richard’s palm is dry, although soft from his bath, and the hint of friction is enough to make Thomas shudder. He feels giddy, too warm in Richard’s embrace, even though neither of them are wearing much and they’ve only just started, but he feels safe too. 

Richard runs his thumb over the tip, spreading the wet there, back down the whole length but it’s not enough and Thomas hisses through his nose, at the discomfort and the pleasure, not knowing whether he wants to push up into the feeling or get away from it.

‘Sorry, love,’ Richard murmurs, ‘here.’

He brings his palm up to Thomas’s face, holds it there.

‘What?’ Thomas begins to ask, flushing as understanding dawns on him all at once; neither of them want to move, the vaseline is god knows where, it’s an elegant solution. 

He shifts his weight, grips Richard’s wrist and licks, palm to fingertips tasting soap and salt, Richard’s bath and beneath it, the sea. Richard moves quickly then, getting his hand back to Thomas’s cock, stroking once, twice, root to tip. It’s the first proper touch, firm and purposeful and it has Thomas gasping, perfect heat and pleasure coalescing in his thighs, radiating out. 

‘It’s strange, this, isn’t it?’ Richard says, so close it’s like he’s inhabiting Thomas’s skin, ‘doing this is always so familiar but the feelings’s wrong, different size, different shape.’

He never stops with the movement of his hand, the whole time he’s talking, slow movements and thumb against the slit on every upstroke. 

‘Be careful what you say about _size_ ,’ Thomas manages, gasping. 

‘Don’t worry I’ve no complaints.’ 

Richard keeps up the pace for a moment, steady, and then he drops his hand, taking away all that sensation in an instant, to cup Thomas’s bollocks. It’s a different kind of pleasure, shallower, lower, it makes him want to move his hips, it makes him want to beg. 

‘What do you think about when you do this to yourself?’ 

‘I don’t do this to myself.’

‘Hmm? What?’

‘Not all this faffing around anyway. Richard, _please.’_

‘Not until you tell me. What do you think about?’ Richard’s fingers circle the base of his cock, slide up to where he’s dripping, now, and back down and then he goes still, again. 

_‘Fuck_. You. I think about you.’

‘What do you think about me?’

Thomas can barely get his thoughts in order, how long has it been since Richard first touched him? It feels like hours but it can only have been minutes, Richard’s hair is still damp, his prick hard against Thomas’s back. 

‘I think about you touching me, I think about you fucking me…’

‘And now you know what that feels like,’ Richard moves his hand, faster than before, and Thomas shifts into it, his hips thrusting into the circle of Richard’s fingers.

‘Yes, you’re so good, _fuck,_ too good.’

‘I shall take that as a complement.’ 

Richard’s laughing again but with him, really, not at him and it’s soft and safe in his arms. Thomas can let go. 

‘That’s it love, take what you want,’ and Thomas does or tries to because as soon as he starts moving with purpose, Richard stills, grips the base of his cock, sensation pulsing in his hips but somehow out of reach. 

Thomas opens his eyes, he wasn’t aware of closing them, and tilts back to try to look at Richard’s face, ‘what?’

‘When you’re alone, how fast do you go?’

‘What?!’ Thomas repeats, he can’t see much of Richard from this angle, just his profile, but he’s smiling, pleased with himself, infuriating and beautiful all at once.

‘When you do this,’ a slow, single stroke, ‘how fast do you go?’

‘Faster than that,’ it’s hard to keep the petulance out of his voice, he wants this, whatever this is, and he knows Richard would stop at any time, or not stop, more’s the point, but he still wants to argue, fight his corner.

‘Do you want to see how slow you can take it?’

‘No. Yes.’ 

Thomas concedes quickly. If Richard’s in no hurry to get off himself, Thomas will indulge him. They have a few hours before they need to think about dinner and this pleasure is not something he wants to willingly deny himself, even if Richard is going to make him work for it. 

‘Let’s -, move. Do it properly,’ he shoves his shoulder backwards to get them moving. 

Richard shifts back off the bed, cool air rushing between them, and Thomas turns to watch him getting out of his clothes. He’s suddenly aware himself of the rough wool of his trousers, he’s still wearing his socks, for god’s sake, and he hurries to get himself out of them. 

Naked together on the bed they kiss properly, _finally_ , deep and full. Thomas tries to pour every apology he hasn’t voiced today into the kiss, his hands on Richard’s jaw, and Richard kisses him back like forgiveness. 

It’s less of a standing start, he’s had a moment to cool off but the sensations are still there, under his skin, and the first touch of Richard’s hand to his cock is heaven. He’s lying on his back with Richard propped on his side next to him, drawing patterns on his chest with a single finger. It feels more exposing than yesterday, more raw; Richard is touching him for the sole purpose of giving Thomas pleasure with no thought to himself at all, there’s no goal here that gives Richard anything, except to watch Thomas fall apart.

‘Are you sure…?’ Richard sees where he’s looking, where he’s hard and surely aching.

‘I’m happy to wait.’ 

‘But…’

Richard puts a finger to Thomas’s lips and gives him a smile so winning Thomas would surrender to anything, ‘I want to wait, let me.’

Thomas nods, settles back against the pillows, and waits for Richard to begin. He’s located the vaseline, from wherever it ended up last night, because his palm is slick now and the slide is exquisite. His strokes are firm and measured, twisting at the tip and back down, pressing his thumb to the crown and Thomas could get used to this unhurried pleasure, sink into it and drown. He feels himself getting close, hopeful that Richard has forgotten what they’re meant to be doing, his hips moving in a syncopated rhythm against Richard’s hand. It’s perfect, spiraling bliss; he chases it, moaning nonsense and Richard’s name and - 

Richard stops, hand at the base of Thomas’s prick, not hard, not doing anything to stop him but not giving him any extra stimulation either and Thomas groans, turning his head into the pillow. 

‘How does that feel, darling?’ 

Richard’s mouth finds Thomas’s collarbone again, a welcome distraction, if he’s supposed to be holding back; it’s a brighter pleasure compared to the mellow intensity of Richard’s hand on his cock, moving slowly again, and it grounds him. 

‘Terrible.’

‘How does it really feel?’ Richard doesn’t take offence, it seems, in bed or out of it. 

‘Good. It feels good,’ Thomas smiles and finds he means it. 

This is different to the way he’s been with any other man in bed, if they ever found themselves in a bed on those occasions. He feels free with Richard to ask for what he wants, to take what he’s given and trust he’ll like it. It’s exploration, gaiety; he can laugh, here, and not feel the joke’s on him somehow. Richard takes care of him and he takes care of Richard, they’re doing the best they can and when they come together like this, god, he feels ruined for anyone else, not that he will ever want anyone else, after this. 

Every time they start up again he feels closer than before, less able to hold back the tide, gripping the sheets and biting his lip to keep from crying out. He can’t locate the pleasure in his own body, now, it feels like it’s everywhere, not just concentrated on his prick as Richard starts stroking the length of him, touching him lower, finding the soft intimate places on the inside of his thighs. 

‘I wish I could hear you,’ says Richard, warm and quiet, ‘I wish we were somewhere you could be as loud as you want and not in this godforsaken hotel in the middle of the afternoon.’

‘’S not too bad,’ 

‘A generous review I’m sure. Are you close, love?’ 

Thomas hums the affirmative, teeth gritted, and this time when Richard closes his fingers at the base of Thomas’s cock he is firm and the precipice Thomas was teetering on recedes ever so slightly. He’s breathing hard, like he’s run a race, and Richard is looking at him like he just came in first place. 

They kiss because they can’t not. Desperate and breathing each other's air, hands clutching at shoulder and hip and everywhere they touch it’s electric, frenetic, a wellspring of affection and desire, too big to be contained and Thomas is so _ready_ it bursts out of him as a sob.

‘OK, OK,’ Richard soothes him like he's a skittish horse, petting his flanks and running soothing fingers through his hair, ‘I’m here.’

Thomas is almost apprehensive of the next touch, sure it will overwhelm him, when he’s been waiting for so long but Richard is tender. His climax builds, a warmth suffusing his body seemingly without end, and it feels like Richard is easing it out of him, pulling him through it with a practiced hand as Thomas arches into it, tense for a suspended moment, and then gone, lost. He’s panting, covered with his own come, still tingling with pleasure from head to toe and he imagines, somewhere beyond this room, he can hear the waves breaking on the beach. 

Richard is grinning, looking unbearably pleased with himself, and still he asks, ‘how was that?’

Thomas elbows him in the side, ‘you know how it was. Bloody fantastic,’ and kisses him, soft and open.

‘I’m going to need another bath.’

‘You’ve no one to blame but yourself and haven’t we got something else to consider first?’

‘Oh?’

Trust Richard to have set his own gratification so firmly aside he can have been ragingly hard for this long and not demanded anything of Thomas as he gave him his pleasure. 

Thomas turns on to his side, ‘come on, between my -, here,’ shifting back to get Richard’s cock between his legs, snug against his bollocks. 

‘I won't last long,’ Richard's voice is hot on the nape of his neck, his grip bruising as he finally takes what he wants between Thomas’s thighs. 

‘You don’t need to,’ now it’s Thomas’s turn to speak, to talk Richard through it and something has been knocked loose, he feels a languor in his limbs and no control over his tongue. 

‘You feel so good, when you take me, when you touch me, it’s all I think about.’

Richard’s hips are sharp against Thomas’s backside as he thrusts, erratic, but his mouth is soft on Thomas’s shoulder as he gasps out incoherent vowel sounds and hazy declarations.

‘I love you. Like this, like anything,’ Thomas reaches to find Richard’s hip, to control his pace, a connection beyond Richard’s cock, hard and leaking, between them. 

‘So do I,’ Richard’s voice is ragged, desperate. 

‘I know, nearly there, show me, love, show me.’

‘Thomas. _Thomas.’_

Thomas falls into Richard’s rhythm, moving back against him, pressing his thighs together, wanting to revel in Richard’s pleasure almost as much as his own. Feeling Richard’s prick snug against him is a comforting pressure, the slickness and sweat between them, the noises, hastily stifled, still sound loud in his ears. He wants to catalogue all of it until there isn’t a single second he doesn’t know by heart. He feels the moment Richard comes in the tightening of his grip and the scattered kisses pressed to his shoulder that become gasping puffs of air. Richard slows but doesn’t stop moving, the way made easier now between Thomas’s painted thighs and they rock together down to gentle stillness and then part. 

They do have to get up now, take turns in the bathroom, again in Richard’s case, but the warmth of the room is cosseting and Thomas feels drowsy with it. Safe enough that when Richard says, ‘about earlier,’ he can respond with sincerity, ‘I am sorry.’

Richard laces their fingers together, holds them up in the dim light of the room, ‘I know and I’ve forgiven you. But I should like to talk about it properly soon. I don’t like you holding on to things that can be so easily resolved.’

It doesn’t feel like an admonition, more an affirmation; if what’s between them is work, it’s work that’s worth doing. 

‘Yes, we’ll get ready, then we can talk.’

When Thomas gets up to make himself presentable for a trip down the hallway, something shakes out from the pocket of his trousers, the ammonite, smooth and dry now, liberated from millions of years of darkness by Richard's tender hands. He puts it on the table between the beds; a token and a reminder, a way back to here. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My notes for this included something like 'fossil hunting as a metaphor for something gay' so there you have it.
> 
> I know more about the history of Whitby Golf Course than I ever thought I'd need. It was established at its current location in 1895 so Thomas and Richard would have had to walk around it in 1928 to get from Whitby to Sandsend.
> 
> There's probably at least one more chapter to come (in which Richard gets some well deserved attention!)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr!](https://lacerta26.tumblr.com)


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